August Heat

  August Heat

  Book Jacket

  Series: Inspector Montalbano [10]

  Tags: Mystery

  SUMMARY:

  Montalbano quickly slammed the trunk shut and sat down on top of it. When the beam from Livia's torch shone on his face, he automatically smiled. 'What's in the trunk?' Livia asked. 'Nothing. It's empty'. How could he possibly have told her there was a corpse inside? The lazy, slow month of August at the height of the Sicilian summer is, Montalbano assures his girlfriend Livia as they prepare for a relaxing holiday in a villa he has found for them, far too hot for any murders to be committed. But when Livia's friends' young son goes missing, a chain of events is sparked which will certainly ruin the Chief Inspector's pleasant interlude. A secret apartment and a grisly find in an old trunk are just the beginning, as Montalbano navigates his way though the case, as well as coping with the sweltering heat, the suspicious death of an Arab laborer and the tempting lure of a beautiful girl...'A magnificent series of novels' - "Sunday Times". 'Wonderful Italian detective stories' - "Guardian".

  Praise for August Heat

  'Andrea Camilleri is one of Italy's finest writers, and he's on top form in his latest Inspector Montalbano mystery' Sunday Times

  'This is Inspector Montalbano's tenth outing and cements Camilleri's reputation as the finest living Italian crime writer' Daily Mirror

  'The seal of the best foreign crime writing is as much the stylish prose as the unfamiliar settings. When both ingredients are presented with the expertise shown by Andrea Camilleri, the result is immensely satisfying' Independent

  'The climax of August Heat is brilliant but for the inspector, sad, and, unusually, engaging of his emotions. This does not mean that Camilleri has lost any of the wit, fun and exuberance of his previous novels. Montalbano's added maturity has merely enhanced the excellence of the series' Marcel Berlins, The Times

  'The popularity of Camilleri's clever, bitter-sweet novels comes from their human comedy, their commitment-phobic central figure, and from the quality of the writing' Times Literary Supplement

  'This welcome addition to an excellent series is a brilliant, blackly comic read with an all-too-human protagonist ... a cut above the average thriller' Waterstone's Books Quarterly

  AUGUST HEAT

  Andrea Camilleri is one of Italy's most famous contemporary writers. His Montalbano series has been adapted for Italian television and translated into nine languages. He lives in Rome.

  Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator. He is also the author of three books of poetry, most recently The Open Vault. He lives in France.

  Also by Andrea Camilleri

  THE SHAPE Of WATER

  THE TERRACOTTA DOG

  THE SNACK THIEF

  THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN EXCURSION TO TINDARI

  THE SCENT OF THE NIGHT ROUNDING THE MARK

  THE PATIENCE OF THE SPIDER

  THE PAPER MOON

  THE WINGS OF THE SPHINX

  ANDREA CAMILLERI

  AUGUST HEAT

  Translated by Stephen Sartarelli

  PICADOR

  First published 2009 by Penguin Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., New York

  First published in Great Britain 2009 by Picador

  This edition first published 2010 by Picador an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan. 20 New Wharf Road, London NI 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-550-45750-9

  Copyright © Sellerio Editore 2006 Translation copyright © Stephen Sartarelli 2009

  Originally published in Italian as La Vampa i'Agsslo by Sellerio Editore, Palermo

  The right of Andrea Camilleri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  AH rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  1 J 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset by SetSystems Ltd, Saffron Waldcn, Essex Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,

  or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  ONE

  He was sleeping so soundly that not even cannon-fire could have woken him. Well, maybe not cannon-fire, but the ring of the telephone, yes.

  Nowadays, if a man living in a civilized country (ha!) hears cannon-blasts in his sleep, he will, of course, mistake them for thunderclaps, gun salutes on the feast day of the local saint, or furniture being moved by the upstairs neighbours, and go on sleeping soundly. But the ring of the telephone, the triumphal march of the mobile, or the doorbell, no: those are sounds of summons to which the civilized man (ha-ha!) has no choice but to surface from the depths of slumber and answer.

  So, Montalbano got out of bed, glanced at the clock, then at the window, from which he gathered that it was going to be a very hot day, and went into the dining room where the telephone was ringing wildly.

  'Salvo! Where were you? I've been trying to get hold of you for half an hour!'

  'I'm sorry, Livia. I was in the shower so I couldn't hear the phone.'

  First lie of the day.

  Why did he tell it? Because he was ashamed to tell her he had still been asleep? Or because he didn't want to embarrass her by telling her she'd woken him? Who knows?

  'Did you go to look at the house?'

  'Livia! It's barely eight o'clock!'

  'I'm sorry. I'm just so desperate to know if it's all right...'

  The whole business had started about two weeks before when he'd had to tell Livia that, contrary to plan, he would not be able to leave Vigata for the first half of August because Mimí Augello had been forced to take his holiday earlier than expected due to complications with his in-laws. But the change had not produced the calamitous results he had feared. Livia was very fond of Beba, Mimí's wife, and of Mimí himself. She had complained a little, of course, but Montalbano had thought that would be the end of it. He had been wrong. Way off the mark, in fact. The following evening Livia had called back with a surprise request.

  'I'm looking for a house, straight away, two bedrooms, living room, by the sea, in your area.'

  'I don't understand. Why can't we just stay at my place in Marinella?'

  'You can be so stupid, Salvo, when you put your mind to it! I meant a house for Laura, her husband and their little boy.'

  Laura was Livia's dearest friend, the one to whom she confided her Joyful and not-so-Joyful Mysteries. 'They're coming here?' 'Yes. Do you mind?'

  'No
t at all. I think Laura and her husband are very nice, you know that. It's just that...' 'It's just what?' Jesus, what a pain!

  'I was hoping we could finally spend a little more time together, just the two of us, alone—' 'Ha-ha-ha-ha!'

  A laugh rather like that of the witch in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

  'What's so funny?'

  'What's so funny is that you know damn well the only one who's going to be alone is me — me and nobody else — while you're spending your days and maybe even your nights at the station working on the latest murder.'

  'Come on, Livia, it's August. With this kind of heat, even the killers down here wait until autumn.'

  'Was that a joke? Am I supposed to laugh?'

  Thus had begun the long search for a house, with the help — inconclusive — of Catarella. 'Chief, I tink I gotta place like you's lookin' for, out by Pezzodipane.'

  'But Pezzodipane's six miles from the sea!'

  'Iss true, but to make up for it, there's a artifishy lake.'

  On 'Livia, I found a lovely little apartment in a sort of block near—'

  'A little apartment? I told you clearly I want a house.'

  'Well, an apartment's a house, isn't it? What else is it? A tent?'

  'No, an apartment is not a house. It's you Sicilians who confuse the matter by calling an apartment a house, whereas when I say "house", I mean "house". Would you like me to be more specific? I want you to find a freestanding, single-family residence.'

  The estate agents in Vigata laughed in his face.

  'What — you think you can come in on the sixteenth of July and have found a house by the sea for the first of August? It was all let a long time ago.' But they'd told him to leave his telephone number. If, by chance, somebody cancelled at the last minute, they would let him know. And a miracle happened, at the very moment he had given up hope.

  'Hello — Inspector Montalbano? This is the Aurora estate agency. A nice little villa by the sea has come free, the sort of thing you were looking for. It's at Marina di Montereale, in the Pizzo district. But you'd better come over quickly, because we're about to close.'

  He'd left in the middle of an interrogation and rushed to the agency. From the photos it was exactly what Livia wanted. He'd arranged that Mr Callara, the agency boss, would pick him up the following morning at around nine o'clock to show him the house, which was less than six miles from Marinella.

  Montalbano realized that six miles on the road to Montereale at the height of summer could as easily mean five minutes as two hours, depending on traffic. Too bad. Livia and Laura would have to make do. It couldn't be helped.

  The following morning, as soon as he got into the car, Callara started to talk and didn't stop. He began with recent history, recounting how the house had been let to a certain Jacolino, a clerk in Cremona who had paid the required deposit. But just last night, Jacolino had phoned the agency saying his wife's mother had had an accident so they couldn't leave Cremona for the time being. And the agency had rung him, Montalbano, straight away.

  Next, Mr Callara had delved into history. That was, he had told him in full detail how and why the house had been built. Some six years ago, an old fellow of about seventy, who went by the name of Angelo Speciale — Monterealese by birth, but an emigrant to Germany, where he'd worked for the rest of his life — had decided to build himself this house so he could come back to his home town once and for all with his German wife. This German wife, whose name was Gudrun, was a widow with a twenty-year-old son called Ralf. Got that? Got it. Well, Angelo Speciale had come to Montereale in the company of his stepson, Ralf, and gone around for a month, looking for the right location. When he'd found it, and bought it, he went to see Mr Spitaleri, the developer, and asked him to draw up the plans. He had waited a year and more for the construction to be completed. Ralf had stayed with him all the time.

  Then they went back to Germany to have their furniture and other possessions shipped to Montereale. But a weird thing happened. Since Angelo Speciale didn't like flying, they had taken the train. When they got to Cologne station, however, Mr Speciale couldn't find his stepson, who had been travelling in the bunk above his. Ralf’s suitcase was still in the compartment, but there was no trace of him. The night conductor said he hadn't seen anyone leave the train at any of the earlier stops. In short, Ralf had disappeared.

  'Did they ever find him?'

  'Would you believe it, Inspector? They never did! From that moment on, no one ever heard from him again.'

  'And did Mr Speciale move into the house?'

  'That's the best part! He never did! Poor Mr Speciale, he hadn't been back in Cologne a month before he fell down the stairs, hit his head and died!'

  'What about the twice-widowed Mrs Gudrun? Did she come down here to live?'

  'What was she going to do here, poor thing, without her husband or son? She called us three years ago and told us to let the house. And since then we have, but only in the summer.'

  'Why not during the rest of the year?'

  'It's too isolated, Inspector. You'll see for yourself.'

  It was indeed isolated. One got there by turning off the provincial road on to an uphill track, with only a rustic cottage, another slightly less rustic cottage and, at the end, the house. There were hardly any trees or other vegetation. The entire area was parched by the sun. But the moment one arrived at the house, which was at the top of a hill, the view changed. It was breathtaking. Below, extending in both directions, there was a beach of golden sand, dotted here and there with a few umbrellas; and in front, the clear, open, welcoming sea. The house, which was all on one floor, had two bedrooms, a big one with a double bed and a smaller one with a single, a spacious living room with rectangular windows looking on to nothing but sea and sky, certainly not a television. The kitchen was sizeable and equipped with an enormous fridge. There were even two bathrooms. And a terrace that was perfect for open-air dining in the evening.

  'I like it,' said the inspector. 'How much is it?'

  'Well, Inspector, normally we don't let a house like this for only two weeks, but since it's for you...'

  He spat out a figure that was like a cudgel to the head. But Montalbano didn't feel a thing. After all, Laura was rich and could play her part in alleviating the poverty of southern Italy. 'I like it,' he repeated.

  'Naturally, there will be some additional expenses—'

  'Naturally, there won't be any additional expenses’ said Montalbano, who didn't want to be taken for a fool.

  'Okay, okay.'

  'How do you get down to the beach?'

  'Well, you go through the little gate on the terrace, then walk about ten yards to a small stone staircase that leads down to it. There are fifty steps.'

  'Could you give me about half an hour?'

  Callara looked befuddled. 'If you keep it to half an hour...' he said.

  From the moment he'd seen it, Montalbano had wanted to dive into that sea, which seemed to be beckoning him, and go for a long swim. He swam in his underpants.

  When he returned, the sun had dried him off by the time he had climbed the fifty steps.

  On the morning of i August, Montalbano went to Palermo's Punta Raisi airport to meet Livia, Laura and her son, Bruno, a little boy of three. Guido, Laura's husband, would come later by train, bringing a car and their baggage across the strait. Bruno was one of those children incapable of sitting still for two consecutive minutes. Laura and Guido were a little concerned that the boy still didn't talk and communicated only with gestures. He didn't even like to draw or scribble like other children of his age; to make up for it, however, he was a master at breaking the cojones of all creation.

  They went to Marinella, where Adelina had prepared lunch for the whole gang. But Montalbano's housekeeper had already gone when they arrived, and Montalbano knew he wouldn't see her again for the remainder of Livia's fifteen days there. Adelina had a deep antipathy towards Livia, and the feeling was mutual.

  Guido stumbled in aroun
d one o'clock. They ate, and immediately afterwards, Montalbano got into his car with Livia to lead the way for Guido, in his car with his family. When Laura saw the house, she was so excited she hugged and kissed Montalbano. Bruno indicated that he wanted the inspector to hug him too. But as soon as Montalbano picked him up, the child spat the sweet he was sucking into the inspector's eye.

  They agreed that the following morning Livia would come to see Laura in Salvo's car, since he could get a lift to work in a patrol car, and would stay for the day. That evening, when he finished work, Montalbano would get somebody to drive him to Pizzo, and together they would decide where to go out to eat.

  That seemed to the inspector an excellent plan, since it would allow him at lunchtime to feast on whatever he liked best at Enzo's trattoria.

  The troubles at the beachside house in Pizzo began on the morning of the third day. When Livia went to see her friend, she found the place upside-down: clothes had been pulled out of the armoire and piled on the terrace chairs, mattresses pushed up under the windows of the bedrooms, kitchen utensils strewn across the ground in the parking area in front of the entrance. Bruno, naked, with the garden hose in hand, was doing his best to soak the clothes, mattresses and sheets. The moment he saw her he tried to soak Livia too, but she, knowing him well, stepped out of the way. Laura was lying on a deck-chair next to the low terrace wall, a wet rag over her forehead.

  'What on earth is going on?'

  'Have you been inside the house?'

  'No.'

  'Look inside from the terrace, but be careful not to go in.'

  Livia went in through the little terrace gate, and looked into the living room.

  The first thing she noticed was that the floor had turned almost black.

  The second thing she noticed was that the floor was alive — it was moving in all directions. After which she didn't notice anything, having understood what she had seen. She screamed and ran off the terrace.

  'Cockroaches! Thousands of them!'

  'This morning, at the crack of dawn,' said Laura, with great effort, as if lacking even the breath to go on living, 'I got up to get a drink of water, and I saw them, but there weren't so many of them then ... so I woke up Guido, and we tried to salvage whatever we could, but we soon gave up. They kept coming up out of a crack in the living-room floor...'